Poetry within a face: The Written Portraits of Ox Maló

A version of this article was originally published under the title My favorite thing about being a writer in the Substack Diary of a Reader on 4 September 2025.

My first novel, New Animal, was published recently and examines the way cross-species communication develops when there is no common language. The story is built on the reliance of the non-verbal, on the necessity of the speechless. When there is nothing we can say, because there is no language we share, nor even a common physical mouth structure to learn, how do we say it? With utterances, movements, glances, posture and emotive gestures? Is what is shown the same as what is received? And is there something written on the face and body that reaches out long before any communicative effort is even executed?

I recently met a Vienna-based poet, whose work renewed my curiosity – and I would also ask you to consider – in the following: How much of a person’s inner world do you think is written on the face? And, does whatever is written change depending on the day, the hour or who they’re looking at?

Ox Maló is a writer, poet, photographer, and, for all intents and purposes, a magician who performs in and around Vienna and throughout various cities in Europe. The performance? The Written Portraits. 

I went to see his performance in the square in front of Shakespeare’s Booksellers, an English-language bookshop in the center of Vienna (specifically, an area called The Bermuda Triangle). To describe it mechanically, the way it works is: He sets up with another artist, usually a musician and sometimes also a dancer. His typewriter is placed on a table across from him, and an empty chair sits and waits for an occupant. Once a person has taken their seat, the show begins. 

But there is so much more to it than that.

Ox writes in the introduction of his book The Written Portraits Poems, a selection of 100 of the portraits he’s written in this technique in recent years:

‘My grandfather was a bohemian from the Czech Republic. He was a sorcerer, magician, mentalist, tarot reader, mattress maker and writer of tango lyrics.’

I think it skipped a generation, certainly the sorcerer/magician aspect, because that’s what a performance of The Written Portraits looks and feels like. You sit in front of him, and there’s a sudden connection, like an electric charge. He accesses some part of you, as he views you before him, and there’s an undulation in the space between. His face contorts with everything from large expressions to the most microscopic inflections. He grimaces, smiles, laughs, smokes his cigarette, and then starts mumbling to himself, as if chanting an incantation. (The music of the Oud and Avin’s beautiful voice began somewhere in this opening phase.) Ox fidgets, wiggles and shifts in his chair. And then he reaches out and begins typing like a musician composing an original, spontaneous score. And in that moment, he has you, and you’re carried along in his wave. 

It was a thrilling experience, both as a spectator and as a participant. I think for me one of the most exciting moments, aside from the moment when he begins writing, is the moment when he finishes. He sometimes bangs the last typewriter key with a dramatic wave of his arm, like a conductor bringing an orchestra to a triumphant ending. And then he unrolls the typewriter paper with the finished portrait poem, fixes any typos with a pen, signs his name, and then hands it over to his subject. I’ve always considered writing to be a totally cerebral activity. Indeed, I sometimes become completely disconnected from my body, and that’s not always a bad thing.

But this was a whole other type of writing, certainly the most active I’d ever seen.

Speaking with him after his show, he asked me why I found the ending so exciting. I told him that, for me, it was the moment of transfer, this incredible offering to his subject. They’ve sat for him, and in those few minutes, a portal is opened. He sees something unique in that space between their two faces, something no one else sees, which the sitter doesn’t even know is there, something which hovers for the audience as a fascinating mystery. Offering the poem in return, this custom portrait, written once and never again to be repeated, is such a special gesture. It’s how the portal is closed, and that’s just as exciting as how it’s opened. 

In thinking about it later, I also wonder: How much of himself is he handing over in those portrait poems? Once a portal is opened, it can be stepped through in either direction, no? To what degree has he transcribed his own reflection in his subject’s face? We react to every stimulus we encounter, so where are his own lines within those portraits? 

I bought his collection, The Written Portraits Poems, and I have to say, another enjoyment comes from reading them out of context. The words on the page are now completely disincorporated from the muse and the medium, and I find myself trying to paint a picture of a face from words alone. Which words project a sadness in the eyes, a particular curve of the mouth? Which words convey age or gender? 

It’s a mystery, a puzzle: How much of us is written on the face? 

And how many of us can see what’s there? 

And do read the introduction. I think introductions are hidden gems in books that don’t often get the attention they deserve, and this one is no different. It offers a glimpse into the creation of this type of writing, his background, and where he hopes to take his performances in the future. 

‘The stories are in the skin, I do skin reading.’

Maybe he’s not a sorcerer, but it takes a unique ability to learn the language of the skin, not to mention the act of transliteration. 

I’d like to take this reflection of The Written Portraits one step further: In a world consumed by social media as a primary method of involvement, and AI’s icy and senseless fingers rewriting our lives, one soul-less summary at a time, I would say that The Written Portraits is an active and fervent protest against a kind of emotional malnourishment that has never been seen before in human history.

Technology is slowly depriving us of the mirrors of our lives. We instinctively mimic a face smiling on a small rectangular screen, but there is no connection. It’s a strange world of one-way mirrors, and we’re unable to exchange anything. There’s just the sound of our own plaintive howl against the ceramic shield, and the frightening knowledge that though we have scrolled through the lie of a thousand faces pantomiming interest and engagement, not one of them mirrored back to us. We spend hours looking, and we are never once seen.

More than poetic performance art, more than magic, The Written Portraits is a mirror. A unique, spontaneous, imperfectly human mirror, the kind rapidly vanishing from our lives.

And yet, it is through social media that I discovered Ox Maló, through which many have discovered him. The platforms create both the need for and the foundation to further his poetic demonstration.

So it is not without irony that I close this review in the following way:

You can find Ox Maló’s books on his website and follow him on Instagram and Facebook to see short videos of his performances, as well as keep up with his dates of appearances. He also has longer videos available on his YouTube channel, where you can also see some of his other poetry and collaborations with other artists. I recommend Waiting for a Knife. The sound of the vocal accompaniment with the reading takes you somewhere else.